


until a difference is made

by Anonymous



Series: starkerotic's fic collection [6]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Afterlife, Angel Peter Parker, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Near Death Experiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22329166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Pepper tells him, “You were- You weregone,”with tears in her eyes. “They couldn’t revive you for so long, and then you just…woke up.”When she leaves, Tony thinks about what she said, what she didn’t say, and about the honey-eyed boy and his parting words.You aren’t ready for me, yet. Maybe next time, Mister Stark.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: starkerotic's fic collection [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1384960
Comments: 11
Kudos: 123
Collections: Anonymous





	until a difference is made

_Agony, pain, hurt_ are all that Tony feels as the knife slips between his ribs. He shouts out a warning to Pepper, enough of one to let her know where the threat is, and feels a sharp burst of pride as she turns, fearless, and faces it, aims the gun Tony has bought her, the one she keeps in her purse at all times, directly at the man behind Tony. He manages to roll away, pushing himself from his attacker, biting back a cry of distress as he feels the gaping wound in his side gush out more blood, what feels like a veritable waterfall of crimson flowing from his body, careful not to frighten Pepper any more than she may already be. Amber light shines in the darkness, the lights from the street just outside the alleyway, illuminating the contorted features of the thief, mouth twisted in a silent scream as the bullet slices through flesh. Tony presses his hand to his own side, warm liquid splashing over his fingers, and tries to focus on something, anything, to keep his mind off of his inevitable death.

Pepper, face lit faintly from the streetlights, panic clearly visible in her eyes, is all he sees as he gives in to the darkness tapping at his consciousness.

(He thinks, even if he _is_ going to die in a dirty alleyway because of some second-rate mugger, he can be okay with her being the last person he sees.)

*

_“Finally,” a clear voice, soft and smooth and amused, rings in his ears. “I thought you would never get here.”_

_Tony starts, breath catching in surprise, and immediately reaches at his side; his fingers touch only the skin-heated fabric of his shirt, no pain greeting him, which…_ isn’t right, _he tells himself._ I was just stabbed. Something isn’t right.

_“It’s alright,” the voice says, slow and musical. “Everything is alright.”_

_Bracing himself, hands clenched at his sides, Tony grinds his teeth, struggling to tamp down his panic when he is unable to find the other person. “Where are you?”_

_The rustling of clothing behind him pushes him into action, one hand reaching for the other’s throat as he lifts his other arm to press firmly against the stranger’s upper torso in one swift motion._

_“Um,” the man - boy, Tony thinks - glances nervously to the side, just behind Tony’s left shoulder. “There’s really no need for violence here,” he says, honey eyes shining and captivating; Tony can’t seem to look away from them. “Mister Stark,” the boy murmurs, lifting one hand cautiously to Tony’s cheek, thumb running slowly over the rise of his cheekbone. He smiles slightly, a quick quirk of lips that look too soft to belong to a male, and huffs out a short laugh. “I wonder if this is why Gwen wanted to be the one to bring you.”_

_Tony furrows his brow at the terminology and blinks, then stumbles into the cream-colored wall he had pressed the other against, the stranger no longer there._

_“Over here,” the boy calls from behind Tony, a teasing sing-song tone, prompting the inventor to whip around quickly. “Follow me, Mister Stark,” he murmurs lightly, half-turned and beginning to walk, movements easy and fluid despite the way the floor begins to rumble and shake, those eyes glancing back at Tony, full of humor and as bright as the Sun._

*

Waking up is the most painful thing he’s ever done, even including suffering the knife injury - everything mostly went numb after the first minute or so of bleeding out, the body’s way of preparing, letting one know death is coming; this pain, it’s on-going, and Tony is going to kill or fire the person responsible for letting him experience it as soon as he can breathe without feeling like his lungs are bursting with fire.

_“Tony.”_

Pepper, her usually melodic and strong voice catching, a tremble in the word. Tony tries to shift his eyes away from the brightness, from the stark white of the hospital ceiling, the light shining down on him. Pepper steps closer, close enough for Tony to make out the strained lines at the corners of her mouth, her red-rimmed eyes as she stares down at him.

“You lost a lot of blood. Try not to be an idiot and move too much.” Her teeth bite hard into her lip. “You should have _died_ back there.” It sounds harsh, just a little, but Tony hears what she doesn’t say. _I’m so happy you’re alive._

She helps him eat something (applesauce, just like his mother used to force-feed him when he was sick and hurting) and then tells him about the thief - a small-time purse-snatcher who had apparently seen Tony and thought he could raise his own criminal status by robbing the richest man in the world. He’d died at the scene; Tony can’t bring himself to feel upset about it.

Pepper tells him, “You were- You were _gone_ ,” with tears in her eyes. “They couldn’t revive you for so long, and then you just… _woke up_.”

When she leaves, Tony thinks about what she said, what she didn’t say, and about the honey-eyed boy and his parting words.

_You aren’t ready for me, yet. Maybe next time, Mister Stark._

***

This trip is the worst decision he’s ever made in his life, possibly second only to choosing “the funvee”; he can hear, through the ringing in his ears, Rhodey shouting orders to the soldiers, telling them to _protect Stark, keep him safe_ , but he can’t see through the spray of crimson painting the window, can’t see where the attack is coming from, can’t see _Rhodey-_

He stumbles out of the vehicle, disturbed dust filling his mouth and nose and eyes, the macabre sight of blood and bodies splattering the sand and dirt, a painting of horrors he’ll never be able to forget.

(If he survives.)

Snatching a weapon from the ground, Tony runs for cover, ducking and firing until the gun _jams, goddammit, no,_ and he has to turn, puts his back to the large boulder and pulls out his phone, rushing to find Happy or Pepper or Obi, send out a plea for help when-

The vest is top-of-the-line, one of the best, but there’s shrapnel embedded in it now, and Tony _can’t breathe, oh god, this can’t be how I die,_ **_please_ **-

*

_“It’s been a while, Tony,” the boy tells him, then frowns. “Or has it?” he wonders, brow wrinkled. “Time passes differently here, so it’s a little difficult to judge the passage of time in the mortal world.”_

_Tony blinks. “You again,” he mumbles. Looking around, he takes in the room; it’s the same one he’d arrived in years before, with the same cream-hued decor and so many things he’d not taken in previously: the soft-looking sofa adjacent to the farthest wall; the matching loveseat and armchair across from them, all with worn cushions and an air of welcome; the beige rug, fluffy and just a few shades darker than the rest of the room, centered between the furniture and under a glass-top coffee table; and one entire wall, covered with a mural of a beautiful horizon, oranges and reds and yellows blending together in a stunning representation of the sky at morning light. It all fills Tony with a sense of_ peace _, his mind quieting and his soul resting for what feels like the first time in his life._

_“Me again,” the other declares brightly, a smile as lovely as the painting he stands alongside spreading over his boyish features, looking like he hasn’t aged a day in the eight years since Tony had found himself here for the first time._

How is that possible? _Tony wonders._ Time passes differently here, he said - but _where_ is _here_?

_“You had to return so quickly the last time,” the boy says, pouting, “that I didn’t get to introduce myself!”_

_“I’m… sorry?”_

_His eyes widen and they remind Tony of autumn, of the late-afternoon sunlight shining through the newly-orange leaves still clinging to the tree limbs, the way the light hits them. “No, no!” he insists, shaking his head. “You weren’t ready, then; you don’t have to apologize!”_

I wonder if this is why Gwen wanted to be the one to bring you, _the boy had said last time. “Am I-” He can’t get the words out for a moment, but his throat doesn’t get tight, doesn’t strangle him with any emotions in the way that it should; in fact, just like last time, all his pain has vanished, the bulletproof vest and shrapnel he_ knows _shot through to his heart,_ gone _. “I’m_ dead _?”_

_A soft sigh breaks between them. “Technically,” the other tells him, “but you won’t stay that way just yet.” His smile is a gentle thing, the type of expression no one in his life but his mother had ever directed toward him. “You’re meant for great things, Tony Stark, and your end will be for nothing less than that.”_

_“Oh,” Tony breathes, “well, that makes me feel better.” The laugh that escapes him is more hysterical than not. It’s not as if he hasn’t thought about his own death before, of course, but it’s never been such a concrete concept to him, merely a passing thought as he downed another bottle of whiskey, hit another line, drove too fast and too recklessly on the crowded freeway. “Thanks so much.”_

_The other’s soft smile doesn’t waver, though his beautiful eyes look so sad now. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll be here to meet you when it_ is _time.”_

 _Strangely, the thought_ does _settle something in Tony, a comforting reassurance nesting warmly in his chest._

 _A loud_ crack _echoes through the room, the same rumbling from last time vibrating the floor beneath them; the boy hums, light and airy. “Sounds like it’s time for you to go back.” He turns on his heel, looking over his shoulder at Tony, a sense of déjá vu coming over Tony. “Follow me, Mister Stark.”_

 _Tony hurries to fall in step. “What do I call you?”_ Next time _is left unsaid, but they both hear it._

_The boy turns those beautiful eyes on him._

_“My name is Peter.”_

***

Obidiah’s betrayal _stings_ , hurts just as badly as his parents’ deaths had so many years before. Tony struggles for breath as Obi uses Howard’s name, wants to scream that _I will_ never _be my father,_ but it’s a futile effort. He can only watch as Obidiah - the man he’s trusted for so long, one of the handful of people he’d thought would always have his back - walks away, disappears from his peripheral vision as Tony fights to _move_.

*

 _Peter almost seems_ surprised _to see Tony, his head tilting adorably, a small dent between his eyebrows appearing. “Tony? You aren’t supposed to be here.”_

_There’s the ghost of an elephant on his chest; it doesn’t hurt, and he can breathe now, but he can still feel the heaviness of his limbs, the tightness of his chest._

_“What’s happened?”_

_His heart is pounding, and he lifts a hand to rub at his chest; his arc reactor is_ here, _intact and emitting its soft blue-white light through his shirt._

_Peter is closer now, an arm’s length away. That honey-eyed gaze are looking exactly where Tony’s hand is. “Is that what all the fuss is about?” Tony’s hand drops as Peter’s lifts, slim fingertips hovering over the ring of the reactor; Tony holds his breath, but they never touch. “It’s beautiful.” It’s whispered, as though he’s frightened of someone hearing his admiration._

_“He took it.” Tony’s voice is gruff, hoarse with remembered breathlessness. “It’s gone. I’m dying.”_

_Peter’s eyes snap up to his, and there is_ fire _in them. “You will_ not _die today, Tony.” Both his arms rise and then an indescribable warmth envelops him as Peter’s palms cup his face on either side. “Do you hear me, Tony?” He leans in, touches his forehead to Tony’s, their noses brushing. “You_ are not dying _today. You are going to_ fight _, Tony.”_

 _Tony’s eyes burn, but no tears fall. He isn’t_ ready _to die, but what can he do?_

 _“I told you that you’re meant for great things, didn’t I, Tony?” Peter’s voice is soft, sweet, desperate to get through to him. “You are meant for a greater purpose, something that_ only you _can accomplish.” Nimble fingers slide through his hair at his temples, thumbs stroking gently over his cheekbones. There are tears in Peter’s eyes, too. “I can’t make you choose to fight, but-” The tears fall as Peter closes his eyes. “I’m asking you, Tony, please, please fight.”_

*

The distance from the penthouse sectional to the elevator to the lab table with his old reactor feels like it takes _years_ to reach, every foot of ground he gains feeling like mere millimeters.

When Rhodey turns him over, he’s still catching his breath.

As the armor assembles around him, as he prepares to confront Obi, Tony thinks of eyes the color of caramel and honey looking into his.

***

He can’t breathe.

Why can he never _breathe_?

“Sir?”

There’s no air in his lungs, no chance for him to respond.

As he falls back toward the wormhole entrance, he hopes someone _good_ \- Bruce, perhaps - takes care of JARVIS.

*

 _The room has more personality this time: bits and pieces of mechanical components are scattered about, as though strewn carelessly after they were handled, over all the surfaces available; the coffee table is gone now, replaced by a tabletop similar to the ones in Tony’s own lab; prints of band posters hang from the blank walls; blueprint holograms of his suit are displayed in the air, deconstructed exactly the way he’d had them before he’d left home this morning; there’s music playing, though it’s not nearly loud enough to drown out his own thoughts, the way he likes it. He feels like he’s_ home _._

_The sunrise mural is still along one wall; Tony finds himself lost in the colors, in the serenity he feels as he stares into it._

_He feels Peter before he sees him._

_“I stopped a nuke,” he tells the other._

_Warmth presses along his arm as Peter stands next to him. “I know,” he says simply. “You’re a good man, Tony.” Tony can see Peter’s smile from the corner of his eye when he snorts. A hand nestles in the crook of Tony’s arm. “You are; there aren’t very many men who would choose to save a city at the cost of his own life.”_

_“Yeah, well, don’t get the wrong idea; I just didn’t want my Tower to collapse into rubble and dust.”_

_Peter’s laugh is just as wonderful as the rest of him. “You’re the most interesting mortal I’ve ever met,” he confides. There are no undertones of malice in the words, no sly digs through them the way Pepper and Rhodey have perfected over the years. He leans into Tony, slides his hand down to twine their fingers together, that same warmth from four years ago expanding throughout Tony’s body from his touch._

_Finally, Tony manages to tear his gaze from the sunrise and looks instead at Peter. There’s a scant inch or two of difference in their heights; he’s never noticed before. “Is this it, then?” he inquires curiously. “Was that the ‘greater purpose’ I was meant for?”_

Is this the end?

 _Humming, Peter rests his head on Tony’s shoulder for a moment. “Anyone could have done that, really -_ could have,” _he adds at Tony’s look, at his raised eyebrow. “They could have, but_ you _did it and, if you want-” Here, he turns to face Tony, their hands remaining linked. “If you want, it can be. You’ve done so much, and I know- I know you’ve suffered for it.”_

_Tony swallows, jaw clenching. “Last time,” he mumbles, “last time, you told me to keep fighting.”_

_Peter smiles, small and content. “I did,” he acknowledges, “and I’m so happy that you did.” His free hand lifts, knuckles caressing the line of Tony’s jaw, then he nods at the mural beside them. “This time, though, it’s calling you; it’s saying-” He takes a breath, closing his eyes. “You can rest now.”_

Rest, _Tony muses._ That would be nice.

 _“But?” Tony wonders. “Is that what you saw for me? Is this where you saw me at the end?” He isn’t sure what Peter is - he has his suspicions, but those are outlandish, even compared to everything that he’s experienced - but he_ knows _that Peter has at least some insight on his future._

_Peter’s fingers tighten briefly around Tony’s; he can’t meet Tony’s eyes. “There’s- there’s one more thing,” he admits. “One more thing is bigger than anything you’ve ever faced.”_

_“And if I don’t? If I choose to stay now?”_

_Sweet honey finds mahogany now. “Then you can rest.”_

_“Can I, though?”_

*

(Shawarma, as it turns out, is delicious.)

***

The Snap takes everything out of him. His entire right side is on fire; he can see the charred skin on his hand when he drags his eyes down.

“Tony.”

It’s Harley, Tony realizes; he’s still reeling at the reality of getting him back.

“Come on, Anthony. I’m sorry. _Please_.”

He’s crying. The kid is crying. Everything hurts, his heart among it all, but there is also a sense of _peace_ , the sort he hasn’t felt in eight long years.

_This was my purpose._

“‘S’okay, kid.” He can’t get anything else out, can’t get his mouth to move, his jaw to unclench, his lungs to fill. (Why can he never breathe?)

Harley’s eyes are shining, his expression heartbreaking. “What’d I say about calling me ‘kid’?” A broken laugh escapes at the old line, more tears falling, and Tony sees an arm encircle the boy’s shoulders, Pepper’s own tear-streaked face coming into view as Harley turns into her.

Rhodey kneels down next to him.

“You did good, Tones,” his best friend tells him. His voice is strangled. “You saved everyone; you brought back the kid.”

Tony feels a hand close over his unmarred one - Rhodey - and then Pepper turns, freckled face twisted in upset, the hand not comforting Harley settling atop Tony’s and Rhodey’s, curling around them.

“You can rest now, Tony.”

*

The sunrise is even more beautiful than ever; Tony wants to fall into it, to follow the whispers circling him from the soft clouds brushed through the sky.

_You can rest now, Tony._

_Rest._

_You deserve it._

He feels no pain, though when he glances down, he sees that his burns have turned to scars, all along his arm and, when he touches his cheek, covering the right side of his face and neck. (He wonders what the rest of him looks like.)

“If you don’t like them,” Peter’s soft voice breaks through his thoughts, “we can make them go away.” He steps in front of Tony, looking up at him with those earthy brown eyes, the specks of copper near the pupils brighter in the overhead lights. His left hand, slender and trembling, rises; his fingertips grazing the scarred flesh, carefully, as though afraid of hurting Tony, who leans into the tingling warmth. Peter’s expression is so soft, so tender. “I think you should keep them, though,” he says, smiling. His fingers find the hair at Tony’s temple, sliding through the short strands. “You’ve gone gray.”

For the first time since the first time they met, since the attempted mugging, Tony reaches to touch Peter, fingertips dancing along the smooth skin, the soft curve of his cheek. He jokes weakly, “Everybody loves a silver fox, don’t they?”

 _Rest now, Tony,_ the sunrise calls to him. _Your work is done._

Peter tilts his head toward the mural, serene and easy, before he looks back to Tony, his hand moving to rest on the taller man’s shoulder, the other a mimic on the opposite side. “I don’t think you needed the help of it,” he chuckles. Tony’s hands go to his hips, resting there lightly.

_Tony._

_It’s okay, Tony._

_Rest now, Tony._

_Your work is done._

“You hear it, this time.”

Tony nods, but doesn’t turn his head from the mural. “Does that mean it’s over now?”

“That depends on your definition of ‘over,’ doesn’t it?” Tony hums in question. Why has he never noticed how beautiful sunrises are? “Mortals say that sunrises are both an ending and a beginning.” Peter steps closer, rests his cheek above where the reactor had once been, his curls tickling Tony’s chin; to an outsider, they might look to be slow dancing. “This may be an ending to one life,” he murmurs quietly, a soft rumble against Tony’s chest, “but who’s to say that there isn’t another one waiting for you?”

_Tony._

“Will you be there, if there is?”

_Your work is done._

“I’ll be anywhere you want me to be.”

_Rest._

The air around them shivers, and something soft brushes against Tony’s forearms.

_Rest now, Tony._

Wings wrap around Tony’s body, enveloping him in downy feathers, as pure white as a fresh snowfall.

_Tony._

“Are you ready now?”

_It’s okay, Tony._

Tony shifts his hands, wrapping his arms completely around Peter, feather tips skimming his arms, both scarred and unmarred.

_Your work is done._

“I’m ready,” he replies, only just loud enough to be heard over the whispers. Peter tips his head back to smile at Tony, beautiful and angelic and bright, and his wings tighten as the quiet murmurs from the painted horizon grow louder. “I’m ready.”

_Rest._

Peter guides them closer to the mural, and the pull Tony feels from it intensifies, calls to him in voices so sweet…

_Tony._

Tony is _breathless,_ a grin spreading wide across his face, pulling at the scar tissue.

_Tony._

Peter’s wings wrap more securely around him and-

_Tony._

-they fall into the sunrise.

_You can rest now, Tony._


End file.
